Nightwing: Brutality
by onegemini
Summary: Inspired by the Birds of Prey Virtual Season. Original takes on classic characters, familiar and new all at the same time. Blüdhaven is in turmoil; there's a gang war to prevent, a prostitute to keep alive and a mystery linking it all.
1. Slowly Turning Gray

This story is inspired by the "Birds of Prey Virtual Season." All characters are Copyright (c) 2004 DC Comics.

**Chapter One: Slowly Turning Gray**

Night fell upon Bludhaven. Smog twisted ethereal and silent through the dark alleyways that made up the downtown of the Blud. The skells skittered through the poison fog like nomads in a canyon-like desert. Rain began to fall softly, dampening the dregs of society and the decay of the urban jungle alike. The downpour increased, as if nature was trying to wash away the sins of man. Dark, rain, and crime; a Raymond Chandler evening.

Lucy Scrawnhart had lost her identity long ago. She gave up her name and her soul to the Blud for unanswered prayers, and dreams perverted into nightmares. Lulu, as she was known in the Blud, was a working girl by trade. She gave in to men's twisted desires nightly, barely by choice, sometimes by force. It was far from the life she wanted.

Lulu came to Bludhaven five years ago, from upstate, searching for meaning in her life, hoping to find a big start in the city, like so many other fresh-faced and bright-eyed young people before her.  _If you can't make it in Gotham, the Blud will have you_, it was said. Bludhaven did have them. Took them, more precisely. Angels with dirty faces, they became, and the light from their eyes was stolen as well, extinguished by the black ash passing for life that Bludhaven offered.

Lulu stumbled out of Kane's Bar at about one a.m. this morning. She giggled, inebriated to sight, sound, and smell, a twelve-step program gone terribly wrong. A passerby could see from her face that she was once very beautiful; smooth skin, lines forming from premature age, rosy cheeks, now purple from a recent blow, azure eyes wide and once happy, now graying and sad. Her hair, once golden blond, flaxen in the light, was now a dingy yellow, jaundice by her environment. Her makeup was haphazard at best, done partially to attract the next trick, but mostly to hide the scars and bruises, her face a scrapbook of the past five years.

She wore a yellowed white blouse, button-up, top button missing, no doubt from the Johns who had torn her shirt open on so many occasions. She was dressed in a short red skirt, dingy as the rest of her, which came barely past her lower panty line. Fishnets clung to her legs, a second skin, armor weak and useless against the life she subjected herself to. Her stiletto heels were scuffed, worn by the punishing pavement she pounded every night, searching for that next trick, dreading that next John.

Lulu spun around in the empty street, holding high a bottle of cheap wine in her right hand, singing absent-mindedly, a drunken musical performed by streetlight. She gave a 'whoop' into the dark night, her voice echoing down the vacant alleyways. She took a heavy swig of her wine, it's ruddy liquid running down her cheeks, giving her pallid face the visage of a satiated vampire.

"Who wansta party?" Lulu asked the empty night, pumping her bottle filled hand into the air. "Who wandsdo get down with a purdy lay-dee?" she asked again, her words making no attempt to hide her degree of inebriation. The dark streets and alleys gave no answer to her query. Raindrops hit her face harder. She tipped her head back, child-like in her attempt to catch the drops in her mouth. Her makeup ran, her eyes stung and reddened. Lulu coughed hard, choking on both drink and spit. She stumbled on the slippery pavement, and crashed limply to the ground. She giggled to herself, as the rain soaked into her clothes.

"I gahiss nahbuddy," she slurred. She smiled and began to get up, steadying herself with the wine bottle and her left hand. She finally made it to her feet, and stumbled to a nearby building. She sighed, leaning against the wall for support. She took another swig of her wine, then looked down the throat of the bottle inquisitively.

"Damn it... empty!" she hiccupped, dropping her right arm to her side, and releasing her tenuous grasp on the neck of the bottle. It dropped to the sidewalk, and landed unharmed, miraculously upright. She smiled at her good fortune and gave a drunken laugh.

"Was' so funny, Lu?"

Lulu turned her head to the source of the voice, an alley across the street from her. Through her makeup stung eyes, and rain diffused vision, she could make out the forms of four men emerging from the alleyway. They were all dressed in various brands and forms of baggy jeans, low on the hip, boxer shorts visible above the beltline. Their shoes were new and expensive, sport sneakers, so white and clean the current rain was probably the first they had seen. They wore various baseball jerseys, covered only with think rain slickers, navy blue, but nearly black in the dim light offered by the streetlamps. The one that spoke came forward. The black youth was taller, and seemingly tougher than the rest. While the other three with him had eyes full of cruelty and hatred, his had something else in addition; cunning. He reached up to his cornrow hair and brushed off collection of stationery drops.

"I said, Lu," he continued, dropping his hands to his side with an air of impatience, "what the fuck be so funny?" Lulu's face took on a look of concern. Her mind sensed danger, but trying to get her body to move was a challenge in her alcohol induced stupor. All the drunken laughter had left her eyes.

"Nuh... nuthin' T-Cool..." she trailed off. Lulu looked at her feet, and the empty bottle standing loyally beside her. The four surrounded her, cutting off any easy exit.

"Well, shit, thas' nice t'hear," the leader, T-Cool said, a sarcastic mock-smile growing on his face. He turned to his boys and laughed, and they chuckled in response, like hyenas surrounding a fallen zebra. Suddenly, and with violent force, T-Cool spun around to Lulu, smacking her to the ground with the back of his right hand. The force of the slap rippled in slow motion across Lulu's face, bruising the flesh underneath in the process. Lulu fell heavy to the ground, the rain that had collected on there splashing up around her. She had been hit before, harder than this, but every time it hurt, and every time she would tear up. Her resolve not to cry had been worn away long ago. She moaned from the ground, sobbing in between groans. T-Cool pulled a Glock 9mm from his belt, fell to one knee, and jammed the barrel into Lulu's temple.

"Y'know what the word on the street is, Lu?" he asked, smiling sinister as before. "They say you don' be rollin' with a man no mo'. They say, you makin' yo money for yo'self?" Lulu moaned softly, and tried to shake her head 'no.' T-Cool pressed the Glock into her head harder. "Don'chu be shakin' yo ugly head at me, bitch! I ain't lookin' for you to be tellin' me I right or wrong. I jus' here to tell you I knows, and that I gonna give you a chance t'make it right. So whas' it gonna be, Lu? You throwin' in with me and mine, or am I just gonna end it here for you and let you wash away like the other fuckin' trash on dis street? Cuz' ain't no one gonna make money in dis town wit'out me and mine getting' what we goddamn deserve!"

There was a groan from behind T-Cool. He turned in time to see BigB to his left fall limply to the ground, while a shiny cylindrical object spun quietly away into the night. Before he could react, Smokes to his immediate right reached for his neck, a near invisibly thin cable was wrapped around it. Smokes tried to choke out a 'help,' but was pulled up into the dark night. T-Cool rose to his feet, and Blues, his only remaining man, pulled out his own Glock. They took steps back, and fired into the night, where they last saw Smokes disappear. Their bullets 'plinged' off of concrete facade, glass shattered and some fell, adding a diamond like sparkle to the evening downpour.

"Holee-shit! Man, T, what was dat?!" screamed Blues. T-Cool tried to answer, but his response was cut short by the brief appearance of two bat like blades, spinning silently through the air. Transfixed in wonder, paralyzed by fear, T-Cool and Blues watched, as the blades hit the streetlamps, completely shattering and snuffing one, and damaging the other to the point it could only blink in starts and fits. The irregular strobe confused the two gangbangers further, and they fired wildly into the night again.

"Oh no, hell NO!" screamed Blues. Lulu looked up through the random flashes of light of the guns, intermingled with the blink of the remaining streetlamp. From the dark, as if made of liquid night itself, a muscular figure in form-fitting dark clothing lunged out, grabbing Blues from behind. Blues tried to turn and fire on his attacker, but was met halfway by a knee to the groin, and a swift uppercut-palm to the jaw. Blues cartwheeled slowly backward, head over feet, as his attacker leapt silently over him, not a movement wasted, everything perfectly choreographed and timed.

T-Cool turned at the sound of Blues' plight, only to see him hit the ground, as his ebon-clad attacker landed two feet to T-Cools stomach, knocking the wind out of him, making him toss his gun away. T-Cool was street-fight smart however, having been raised in the punishing 'hood that was the Blud. He rolled the best he could with his attacker's blow. The man in black flipped to a gymnast-quality stop about ten feet away from T-Cool. The attacker turned slow, and met T-Cool eye to eye.

The attacker was dressed in a dark black cloth, which seemed to repel the rain. His torso was emblazoned with a deep blue "V" that went from shoulder to shoulder in the shape of a bird, it's color barely-visible in the flickering light. Around his waist, he had a silver belt, a full circle broken at the front, seemingly made up of various metal compartments. They too were blue-tinted. His boots were black as the rest of him, save for a tinted-blue steel toe, scratched, scuffed, and dinged, lending credence to the attackers stature and lethal air. As he turned, T-Cool saw that the man had two cylindrical objects, about a foot or so in length, blue steel, attached to the back of his costume. It had been what T-Cool saw spinning away, back to their master, after they had so effectively rendered BigB unconscious. T-Cool once again met the stranger's eyes.

The man in black wore a mask, a black domino mask of old, like the Lone Ranger's, but with a guard, which ran sharply down the bridge of the man's nose. Instead of the rounded edges of the mask of the cowboy, this mask had sharp edges, shooting upward and downward at the same time, giving the mask the shape of a bird, or perhaps a bat. The stranger's eyes shone clearly through the eyeholes; intense blue and intelligent.

T-Cool had caught is breath, and his attacker had not yet moved. He stood there solid as the granite that made up the Blud, the personification of power and grace. Lulu moaned softly nearby, nursing her newly acquired bruises, but managing to sit upright next to her trusty wine bottle. T-Cool raised his fists expertly, ready for a fight.

"Who you s'pposed, t'be? Friggin Zorro, or some crap?"

The stranger smiled.

"Call me the neighborhood watch," said the man in black. His voice was a loud whisper, rough and ghostly.

"Well, I don' care who da' fuck you think you are," said T-Cool defiantly, dancing in the street like Muhammad Ali, pumping his fists, shadowboxing in the flickering dark. "It's all da' same in da' end, brah," T-Cool smiled, "you're fallin' down, an' den' I shootin' you in da' fuckin' skull." The stranger grinned a smile that sent shivers down T-Cool's spine.

"Excellent," he said.

T-Cool let out a mighty roar, and charged at the stranger. He swung quickly, skillfully. Left, right, left, uppercut, just like his old man taught him before that loser ran out on him and his mother years ago. The stranger dodged each, with minimal movement, with little effort. T-Cool saw an opening and kicked at the stranger's stomach. When you're taught to fight in the streets, you learn quick that anything goes, every part of your body is a weapon. T-Cool's kick was blocked by the stranger's knee, which came swiftly and fluidly up, shielding the stranger from the blow. With the knee up, T-Cool swung at the man in black's head with a quick left. The stranger's right arm flew up and knocked away the blow, his right hand meeting T-Cool's left bicep with minimal force, while the stranger's left hand found an opening in T-Cool's movement of arms, and slapped him with hard palm to the sternum, knocking T-Cool to the pavement.

T-Cool landed in a puddle, and the water splashed up around him loudly. The rain intensified, blurring T-Cool's vision. He jumped to his feet as fast as he could, but his attacker hadn't moved towards him an inch. Rage got the better of him, and all of T-Cool's street fight knowledge fell by the wayside. His next salvo of punches was weak, reckless, and ill planned. The stranger knocked, blocked, or deflected all the blows away. T-Cool threw one final hard left at the stranger's head. The stranger easily stepped aside, while delivering a firm blow to T-Cool's shoulder blade, simultaneously bringing his right leg up as pivot point. The force of the initial blow and the combined moves spun T-Cool feet over head to the pavement, where he once again landed on his back.

T-Cool winced in pain. He had landed on something hard, something alien to the topography of the pavement under him. He reached gingerly below him and found that he was lying on his Glock. The man in black had made no move for him, so T-Cool grabbed the gun, and somersaulted forward, came to his feet and spun skillfully to meet the stranger face to barrel. He pulled the trigger as fast as he could.

The bullets tore through the rain, breaking each drop they encountered on their furious journey. The stranger spun left hard and fast, while falling right slightly, muscle memory telling him exactly what to do. The bullets screamed past, but the stranger showed no concern, as a single word escaped his lips.

"Enough."

T-Cool's eyes went wide, as the stranger finished his pivot, his left hand slapping the gun from his hands, while the right followed smashing into T-Cool's face, lifting him a foot and a half off of the ground. T-Cool found solace in the cement once again, but this time, he wasn't getting up. The stranger kicked the gun far away from the still form of T-Cool. He reached down to his belt and pressed a button hidden underneath. He paused a moment, as if listening.

"Yes," he said in that half-whisper, "Gang attack. Corner of O'Neil and Wright. If you would send an ambulance as well."

The stranger pressed the same button again, and then turned his attention to Lulu.

Lulu sat in the same place, still moaning, but less so, hugging the empty wine bottle to her chest, like a child with a teddy bear. The man in black crouched down in front of her. A warm smile shone on the strangers face now, all intensity and violence had left. He reached out a hand. Lulu sobbed in fear. The stranger's hand caressed her chin.

"Shhh," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

Lulu wasn't convinced. Half a decade of men beating and taking what they wish from you wasn't about to let her believe a man in a mask was going to help her.

"Please don't kill me..." Lulu said in a small voice. Tears ran down her cheeks and intermingled with the raindrops and blood from her new bruise. Worry crossed the stranger's face now.

"Lucy. Lucy, I promise I will not."

Lulu's eyes went wide. The stranger knew her name. Someone knew who she once was. A small part of her believed someone cared. But it was only a very small part. Nevertheless, a weak smile escaped her lips, despite her trepidation. The stranger held out his hand again, and stood up. Lulu's brows knitted in worry, but she meekly raised her hand up to his. His grasp was tight, but not crushing. Even his touch communicated caring and warmth. She staggered, and leaned against him, still weak from drink and the beating. His chest was solid, his breathing even and healthy. Incredible, she thought, for a man who just accomplished what he had.

"The EMTs will be here soon," he said quietly. "They will take care of you. You'll be okay."

Lulu smiled again, her tears now tears of happiness.

"I... I want to repay you," she smiled, stroking his chest. The man gently took her hand away from his pectorals.

"No. Not like that. Not like you'd use to. We begin something new, right?"

Lulu was shocked at the refusal. Was she ugly to him? Or did this man truly wish to help her? No one had ever offered her such kindness and care. Her lips parted slightly in surprise.

"But I want to thank you some how," she said aghast. The stranger looked at her, thoughtful for a moment. He reached into his belt and pulled out a laminated business card.

"You want to thank me, go to this man," he handed her the card, "and tell him all you know about the gangs and how they're run down here." Lulu shook her head.

"I can't do that. T-Cool has friend's in high places. If I talk to the police, they hear, and they kill me for sure." She frowned, as another bout of crying tried to fight it's way to the surface.

"No. Don't worry. This is a good guy," the stranger stated, "He's not police. Not anymore. He's a private detective," he spoke, pointing at the card. Lulu looked down at the card; Dick Grayson Private Investigations. She looked back up to the stranger.

"I trust him. You can too," he said.

Lulu bit her bottom lip and smiled. The stranger smiled warmly again. Sirens sounded nearby, the distinct wail of an ambulance mixing with howl of a squad car. The stranger looked towards the source of the sirens, then looked back down to Lulu.

"You'll be safe tonight. Get checked up by the EMTs, and tell the police enough to get these four behind bars tonight, but not enough that you think there will be immediate retribution. Then," he said, pointing at the card again, "tomorrow, get to this guy's office. Okay?"

Lulu nodded.

"You take care of yourself, Lucy," the stranger said, backing away, while taking a small device from his belt. He pointed it towards the top of a nearby building. He pressed a button, and an invisibly thin line shot from it. He gave a slight pull to check for sturdiness, and gave a nod to Lulu.

"Thank you," Lulu mouthed, too in shock over all that had just happened to make any more words emanate past the confines of her mind. The stranger nodded, and gave a friendly smile. He pressed another button on the device in his hand, and was pulled into the rain-filled night sky.

On a rooftop not to far away, the stranger stopped and crouched on the edge of a cornice. He watched the police take away the gang bangers, all of them barely conscious, and watched as T-Cool was loaded into an ambulance. The stranger smiled grimly at that. He continued to watch as Lulu was tenderly placed on a stretcher and loaded into an other waiting ambulance. After a few minutes, only one squad car remained, watching over the scene, waiting for CSU. The stranger stood upright, and pressed a button underneath his belt.

"Nightwing to Nightbird," he spoke, "come to poppa."

In the alleyways nearby, an engine roared.

Nightwing smiled to himself.

_Tomorrow, it begins_, he thought smiling.

The rain began to clear. The clouds began to break, giving way to sunlight, and a brand new day over Bludhaven.

The black-clad form of Nightwing disappeared into the maze of alleyways below.


	2. Jagged Wound

This story is inspired by the "Birds of Prey Virtual Season." All characters are Copyright (c) 2004 DC Comics.

**Chapter Two: Jagged Wound**

It was the crack of dawn, a nearly audible sound in Bludhaven. The sun rose slowly, attempting to take its throne in the sky, battling the Blud's omnipresent clouds for dominance of its heavenly kingdom. The war would end in a standstill yet again today.

Sun streamed through the cheap blinds covering the windows of Dick Grayson's bedroom. The rays poured in-between the slats, giving the bed a glowing yellow veneer. White sheets, ruffled by a troubled sleep, covered Dick's stirring form. Dick sat up with a start.

"Barbara, NO!" he screamed.

Dick breathed in heavy and fast, marathon runner hard, and looked around. Sweat dripped from his face. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated and dark. He closed his blue eyes, and brought a hand up to mop his damp brow. He sighed heavy, and took just as heavy a breath. He sat there for a moment, his forehead resting in his palm, his body sitting up in bed. He finally brought his hand down to the mattress, and tipped his head back, stretching. Muscle pulled and tightened. Joints popped and cracked.

Dick looked at the clock; seven a.m. He had only been asleep two hours, and it was a fitful 120 minutes at that. Dick pulled back the sheets, and swung his feet to the floor. He planted them solidly, and leaned forward slightly, while gazing towards the window. The light stabbed into his eyes, and for a moment, he wished it were still raining, so the clouds would banish the harsh sun from the sky. Dick ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, and scratched the back of his neck, while looking down the blue pajama pants he wore. He yawned once, his hand not yet ceasing its scratching, and finally stood.

Dick walked to the bathroom, and disrobed. He started a shower, and stepped in, the water brutally hot. Too hot. The cold water wasn't coming through the shower again. _I'd better call the landlord_, thought Dick absently. He chuckled to himself, and smiled, shaking his head under the scalding jets. _Oh right, I AM the landlord._ Dick extended his arms in front of him, palms touching the shower wall, and pressed firmly. The water ran lava-like down his back. He pushed a bit harder, and worn muscle pulled on tired bone, popping and cracking undisturbed joints. Dick thought deep.

Dick still lived at 1013 Parkthorne Avenue in Bludhaven. He once was a tenant in this building, and secretly the owner, living near John Law, old foe Aaron "Amygdala" Helzinger, and the former landlady, medical student, and dear friend Bridget Clancy. Dick smiled to himself, remembering Clancy, her dark hair, her bright eyes. A few years back, Dick had bought 1013 Parkthorne from a land development agency. He sold the building to Clancy years before that. All the tenants he had known moved out ages ago, and 1013 was condemned to strip-mallhood. The land deal fell through, and the buildings on Parkthorne sat festering, decrepit. Dick repurchased 1013 Parkthorne partially out of nostalgia, like a grown man, finding a toy dear to him as a child. But Dick bought the property mostly out of need.

Dick was no longer on the Bludhaven Police Force. He didn't want to think about the reason why. The anger and pain was still present, no matter how much good he had done there. He still had Nightwing as a conduit of crime prevention, but he wanted more than that. Dick took a few tests, filled out the correct forms, permits, and the like, and within a month, was a Private Detective. With 1013 in his possession, Dick renovated the building, and turned it into exactly what he needed; the public half a respectable private investigation firm, and the other half, the side no one saw, a base of operations for Nightwing; the Aerie. A camouflaged compound equaled only by the Clocktower in New Gotham. It perhaps rivaled the Batcave itself. Grayson Manor, Dick jokingly called 1013 in private.

Over the past few years Dick Grayson Investigations, coupled with the activities of Nightwing, had severely affected the crime trade in Bludhaven. Dick discovered quickly that there are certain people who will talk to a handsome P.I., and not a masked man in black, and certainly vice versa. He used it all to his advantage. Information was key to stopping crime, and Dick had a wealth of it. He had done some good work over the past couple of years in particular. Simple things like bringing lost loved ones to reunion brought him the most joy. Dick refused to take cheating spouse cases, lecherous jobs playing no more than paparazzo to a straying husband, an unfaithful wife. There were plenty of shady P.I.'s around who could take on those assignments.

Dick stepped out of the shower and began to towel off. He caught his own reflection in the mirror and stared into it. He was no longer the laughing Boy Wonder he had once been. When gangster "Boss" Tony Zucco killed his parents, Dick became an orphan, with no one to care for him, without a friend in the world. Even the other performers of the circus his aerialist family, The Flying Graysons, traveled with could not help. The state would certainly not let this boy be taken in by a traveling show. Dick was going to be another lonely child, lost in the system, dead inside. But that's when he came. Bruce Wayne.

Bruce took in the young acrobat, and soon Dick discovered there was more to his new guardian than met the daylight. His billionaire benefactor turned out to be the Batman, the guardian of Gotham, thought by most to be an urban myth. Batman took young Grayson under his wing, and trained him, shaped him, molded him into a partner, an equal in Batman's eyes; Robin.

Years went by, and things changed, emotions and relationships altered. Robin emerged from the shadow of the Bat and became his own man. Taking the name Nightwing, he fought on, finally on his own. He operated out of Gotham at first, but when his heart was broken, and his mentor departed, Dick decided he needed to get away. Bludhaven became his new home; equal parts need of individual identity, and need of isolation from the past. The laughing boy on the flying trapeze had won independence. But that was a long time ago indeed.

Dick stared at his body in the mirror. His face was showing the signs of age. It had become harder, rougher, brows knit in worry and rage so many times, the emotions had left their signature etched into the granite of his forehead. His irregular sleep patterns led to the rings underneath his eyes, reminders of nights of rest sacrificed for justice found. His body was still firmed and toned, a lifetime of training had seen to that. But it covered with scars now, much like those once Bruce had; bullet wounds, stab wounds, scars from compound fractures where bone would break and pierce the flesh itself, finally exposed to the forbidden air. Dick's hands were covered with their own tales of fights, told in tissue, his knuckles a landscape of scars and bruises.

Dick frowned and sighed. He took a straight razor from the medicine cabinet, and lathered his face to shave. Yes, youth had escaped him, and many years had passed for Nightwing. It had been years since that terrible night that Selina Kyle, he and Bruce's old sometime-adversary Catwoman, had been killed. Soon after, Batman himself vanished. _That night..._ thought Dick. _That was also the night Barbara was --_

Dick stopped, dropping the razor into the sink. Blood trickled from under his chin. He had cut himself deep.

"Damn," he whispered surveying the jagged cut.

Dick washed his face, took a bottle of liquid bandage from the medicine cabinet and daubed some onto the wound. Barbara Gordon, the former Batgirl, the current Oracle, was the hub of knowledge and information on the planet. They had been lovers once, but after that terrible night, she was shot, paralyzed, and she and Dick began to fall apart. Perhaps he had cared too much about her. Perhaps he didn't care enough. Reasons unknown, intangible, but the pain of her breaking his heart was as real as any fist that had punched him, any blade that had cut him. Barbara ended the relationship, Bruce left, and Dick was alone. He left for Bludhaven.

Dick returned to Gotham, once, after the earthquake that had decimated the city. The Phoenix of New Gotham arose, and it was to be the last time Dick saw Barbara. He returned to Bludhaven. Barbara and he would chat, by mail, email, or over the phone, but that contact was few and far between. Nightwing would contact Oracle if information became too difficult to acquire on his own, but the love had past. "The Job" was their remaining bond.

Dick finished his grooming, and went back into the bedroom. He dressed in brown slacks, a white button-up shit, respectable tie, and suspenders. He looked as if he were living out a Philip Marlowe P.I. fantasy. He lifted a silver cigarette case from his dresser and gently opened it. It was filled with brightly colored Pixie Stix, each packed with sugar, food coloring, and little else. Dick smiled to himself. He didn't smoke, but had yet to kick this habit.

He combed his hair, while sucking down a red Pixie Stick, and thought on the previous night. He had been tracking T-Cool and his gang for the past week. T-Cool used to be a small-time 'banger, but had rose quickly through the ranks. That caught the attention of Nightwing. A small-timer doesn't usually ascend the criminal ladder that fast without a big-timer pulling them up the rungs. The big-timer had yet to show themselves, and that was frustrating to Dick. All crime in the Blud at once time was controlled by the gargantuan crime boss Roland "Blockbuster" Desmond. He had been the Joker to Nightwing's Batman. He disappeared off the radar years ago, and whether in hiding or dead, he didn't seem to be in control of Bludhaven any longer.

_Could Blockbuster be back?_ Dick had thought. It was a possibility, but so far he had no evidence to support his theory either way. Over the past few months many former small-timers had risen up, taking out their rivals, assimilating the remaining gang members into their own. An amoeba, spreading out, a bacteria consuming Bludhaven. T-Cool had been one of the more surprising promotions. Dick found no connections in the piles of bodies left in the wake of these turf wars. As far as he could tell, all the gangs were autonomous now, finding what territory they could, then "planting their flag" as it were. It had only become a war recently. Someone new had entered the picture. Someone new was organizing the gangs.

He was going to confront T-Cool and his lieutenants traveling with him last night, when they happened upon poor Lulu. Lucy was a fortunate discovery to Nightwing. T-Cool had spoken the truth; Lucy no longer had a pimp. In Bludhaven, that was quite rare. Any girl hooking on her own was quickly absorbed by a pimp, lest they be driven out of town, or what was more common the case, killed and left to be found washed up on the beach somewhere. Lucy was different though. She once did have a pimp, and one of the more well known ones at that; Chad Dogg.

Chad Dogg, or C-Dogg for short, was the most prominent pimp in the Blud, or as prominent as one could be; catering to celebs, government officials, and crooked cops.  Nightwing would pump him for information at times, but sometimes C-Dogg would offer it up, voluntarily, just to be rid of a rival, though he would of course call it an act of a "concerned citizen." He was Huggy Bear to Nightwing's Starsky, or Hutch. C-Dogg however had disappeared about a month ago. Lucy was one of his, that's how Nightwing knew her name. He knew many of their names. He thought by knowing the hookers by their real names, knowing them as people, he could feel more sympathy to their plight, and work harder to see they would never have to put up with the nightly abuse again.

From what Nightwing knew of Lucy, she wasn't a drunk and wasn't a drug user. The fact that T-Cool said she was still working but without a pimp, plus the sudden binge drinking could mean she knew, or maybe even saw, something she wanted to forget. Many people would drown their sorrows in alcohol. Many drank to forget, suffocating their memories in pools of Jack Daniels, or in Lucy's case, very cheap wine.

Lucy might know what had happened to C-Dogg. If he was dead, Nightwing could discover who his murderer was then work his way up from there. There was chance C-Dogg was killed in a random act of violence. It certainly wasn't an uncommon occurrence in the Blud. But he wouldn't put his money on it. There had to be a connection, and Lucy was the key.

Dick took the spent Pixie Stick from his mouth, and placed his comb back on his bureau. He tossed the Pixie wrapper towards a nearby wastebasket. It flew awkwardly through the air, its weight insignificant against even the lightest movement of air in the room. It fell short of its destination by about a foot, landing in a pair of Dick's shoes. Dick raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"Uh... I meant to do that," he said to no one.

Dick smiled as he bent down to pick up the wrapper and his shoes. _Thank God I'm not that bad with Batarangs,_ he thought to himself as he let the wrapper fall gently into the wastebasket. Dick sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes, giving his bedroom the once-over; the bed, a bureau with a large mirror mounted on the wall above it, and a small desk with lamp, a picture of Dick and Barbara above that, made up the minimal furniture in the room. Pale yellow walls surrounded him, with only two exits; one doorway to his bathroom, one into a small den which led into a modest kitchen. Furnishings weren't that important to Dick. He spent so little time in the upstairs apartment anyways. His days were dedicated to the P.I. business downstairs, and his nights to Nightwing's Aerie, the supercomputers, training rooms, medical stations, and weapon vaults, hidden cleverly from sight throughout the building, and vehicle bays in the sub-basement. If a burglar were clever enough to find his way into the upstairs apartment, or the agency downstairs, they would never penetrate the walls of defense, the laser-trip wires, motion sensors, and heat detecting hardware that protected the Aerie.

Dick stood from the bed and double-checked his black hair, taming one or two stray strands. A tone sounded in his bedroom, from speakers hidden within the walls. Dick went over to the lonely desk, and touched the lower-left corner of the frame around the picture of he and Bruce. A seamless panel slid down, revealing a flat-screen monitor and small computer terminal sunken into the wall. Dick entered in a few passwords and a few commands, and came to his surveillance menu. He turned on the hidden camera at the front door of the agency. The screen revealed Lucy Scrawnhart standing, looking anxious, no doubt worried about being seen at a P.I.'s office. Dick returned the terminal to it's concealed state, and walked back over to the bureau. _Time to work_, he thought to himself, straightening his tie.

_And time to get serious_, Dick said aloud. He took another Pixie Stick from the case, and placed it between his lips. He put the case in his front shirt pocket, and ran a hand over his hair once more.

He went downstairs to meet Lucy.


	3. Dick Grayson Private Investigations

This story is inspired by the "Birds of Prey Virtual Season." All characters are Copyright (c) 2403 DC Comics.

**Chapter Three: Dick Grayson Private Investigations**

Dick ran downstairs, flipping the light-switch near the bottom of the stairwell as he passed. He paused for a moment and gazed around the office to see that all was in its place. It was just as he left it.

Like the apartment upstairs, the P.I. office was bare bones; there was a bookcase made of dark brown hardwood, filled with law books, encyclopedias, reference books, and the like. Two tall potted ferns stood on either side of the bookcase, like deciduous sentinels. Against the same wall was a small desk and chair, a computer with modem sat atop it. The computer was deceptively out-dated; it was there for looks, but was wired directly into the Aerie's mainframe. There were two client chairs against the opposite wall. Above them hung Dick's Private Investigator Certificate and Police Academy Diploma. Various pictures were hung next to those, all framed under glass, like the documents; photos of Dick at his Police Academy graduation, one of him shaking hands with Bruce Wayne (just to impress certain clients), and pictures of Dick when he was still on the Bludhaven PD (to impress other clients). A lonely coat rack stood close to the office entrance. Also along the wall was a door to the client restroom.

Towards the back of the office, near the stairwell, was Dick's desk, a large wooden desk, scuffed by use and years. Mounted to the ceiling above the desk was a working ceiling fan, nearly useless with the building's central air, but a design point nonetheless. In front of the desk was a single client chair, cushier than the other two, and newer. Opposite that on the other side of the desk was Dick's own chair, cushioned as well, but the rest hardwood construction, with a swivel base that came straight down, then branched into four supports, a wheel on each. There was a rack of three hooks mounted on the wall behind the chair; one hook sat empty, the next held Dick's fedora, rarely worn, yet part of the private eye fantasy that Dick wanted to maintain.

The final hook held Dick's gun; an old .45 Beretta in a worn leather, belt holster. It was issued to Dick when he joined the police force, and though he knew his job required it, he always had detested the weapon. Bruce's parents were killed by a man with a gun, and in a way, it had ended the life of young Bruce Wayne as well; the Batman was born then, as a fire of vengeance in the heart of an eight-year-old. Dick once made the mistake of pulling the gun on Batman when he mistook him for an intruder in his apartment. He only had the weapon drawn to keep up appearances, but regretted the decision immediately. He had the barrel of the weapon plugged long ago, rendering it inoperative, but useful to reassure clients.

Along the same wall behind the desk was a liquor cabinet, with glass doors encasing the bottles inside. This was once again a part of the image; Dick didn't drink, so the bottles were empties filled with water, and watered down tea. A file cabinet made up the rest of the wall. Most of Dick's case files were stored electronically on the Aerie's mainframe, but like most of the office, the cabinet was all about appearances.

The door buzzer droned again, like an angry bee, a different sound all together than the tone that sounded upstairs. Dick threw the Pixie Stick case onto the desk.  He then headed to the door and unlocked it, flipping the "open" sign around in the process.

At the top of the stairs leading from the sidewalk stood Lucy Scrawnhart. She was dressed much different from what Dick had seen the night before; her makeup was toned down and she wore a bandage on her right cheek from where T-Cool had slapped her, the edges of the purple welt slightly visible around the gauze. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, and cleaner than the previous evening.

Her eyes were brighter as well; much nearer the blue they once must have been when she was innocent. Rings under her eyes and the slightly pained look she wore told of the hangover she must have been experiencing after a night of drunken revelry.

She wore a plain purple button-up blouse, long sleeved. A pair of jeans adorned her shapely legs, tight, perhaps too tight against her thighs. _Working clothes_, thought Dick. She wore an old pair of brown leather cowboy boots on her feet, the tops hidden by the jean cuffs. She smelled vaguely of perfume, rose-scented perhaps, a smell not at all uninviting to Dick. Barbara used to wear a similar fragrance. Lucy clutched a small brown leather purse between her hands, the strap hanging down, touching the concrete of the top step. Between the index and thumb of her right hand she clutched Dick's P.I. business card, the laminated one given to her by Nightwing the night before.

"May I help you?" asked Dick, feigning ignorance of the reason for her presence.

Lucy looked at her feet unsure, then back up to Dick, her eyes meeting his. Showered and rested from the tribulations of the night before, Dick could see the stunning beauty that was once there, and was taken by it, against his better judgment. Dick had been single by choice since he and Barbara had split. Sure he dated, but they usually were one night affairs, never intimate, never physical. Dick's heart was once so dedicated to Barbara that he could never fathom ever being with anyone else. He had also made a promise to himself long ago never get involved with clients.

"I..." Lucy trailed off. She looked back down to the card, then held it up to Dick, their eyes connecting once again. "Someone last night gave this card to me, and told me to see this man."

Dick took the card, and looked at it, as if trying to recognize it.

"Yep, it's one of mine," he finally replied, handing the card back to Lucy. "What can I do for you, miss --?"

"Lulu," replied Lucy after a beat. Dick cocked his head to the side.

"Lulu? As in the comic book character Little Lulu?" he asked.

"Uh..." trailed Lucy again. Dick smiled.

"C'mon in. Tell me why you've come."

Dick ushered Lucy inside, closing the door behind. Lucy walked cautiously in, surveying the room, while keeping her back hunched. _Like a scared animal_, thought Dick. He showed Lucy to the client chair in front of his desk, and then sat in his own. Lucy sat in the chair, cautiously looking around again, still clutching her purse tight between her two hands, Dick's card still in her right. Dick waited a moment, placed an elbow on the edge of the desk, and then rested his chin in his palm. He looked thoughtfully at Lucy a beat, and then spoke.

"Lulu," he began, "why don't you tell me where you got my card."

Lucy's eyes met with Dick's once more, and he saw focus again take hold. She frowned briefly, then placed the card on the table and stared at it.

"God, I don't know if it was all a dream or not," she said, shaking her head, frowning again. Tears began to form in her eyes. She cupped her nose and mouth with her hands, her breath shuddering. "Christ, it was more like a nightmare." Lucy began to sob softly. Dick opened up a desk drawer and pulled out a box of tissues, and walked around the other side of the desk to her. He half-sat on the top of the desk, one foot touching the floor, the other a foot or so above it pressed to the vertical surface. Dick took a single tissue from the package and handed it to Lucy, then placed the box on the desk. Lucy dabbed under her eyes with the tissue, attempting to stem the flow of the tears.

"Shhh," whispered Dick calmly. "Take a moment, then tell me everything." Lucy breathed in, trying to reign in her emotions. She exhaled long, then looked up to Dick again, her eyes red from the tears.

"Okay..." Lucy whispered. She related the story of last night to Dick, from leaving the bar, to meeting up with T-Cool, to the stranger showing up. Dick knew most of the story, but listened along to maintain his identity.

Dick had become an expert liar over the years. The job demanded it. Sometimes even friends and loved ones would be lied to, to hide his other identity, and sometimes for their own safety. Lucy would never be able to connect Nightwing and Dick; Dick used a lower voice when he spoke as Nightwing. It was a raspy baritone similar to Batman's, but slightly higher. Dick always wore baggy clothing, slightly too large for him, to hide his strong and muscular frame. He slicked his hair back when Nightwing, but parted it on the side when Dick. Between that and the mask covering most of the upper half of his face, it was hard to see the similarities between he and the black-clad vigilante.

Lucy finally finished her tale, ending on the overnight hospital stay for observation. She was released a couple of hours ago, and then went back to her place to change and shower. She took another half hour before finally getting up the courage to locate Dick's office.

Lucy stopped and sighed. Dick sat and pondered for a moment what she had said, Lucy sitting in silence, the shaking in her breathing now gone. Lucy looked up, eyeing the liquor cabinet.

"May I?" she asked, getting to her feet, as she placed her purse on the desk. A few items fell out of the open top of the purse and spread on the desk. Dick turned to pile them up to shove back into her purse, as Lucy made a beeline for the liquor cabinet.

"Whoa, wait, you might wanna-" Dick started.

"Thanks," said Lucy absently, as she opened the glass doors of the cabinet. She took a shot glass from the display and a bottle of Scotch.

"Wouldn't you like a bottle of Coke or a Mountain Dew or something-" began Dick. Lucy removed the top of the bottle, placed it aside, and poured some of the translucent brownish liquid into the glass. She took a swig before Dick could stop her. She held it in her mouth for a second, her eyes growing wide. Lucy spat it out forcefully a moment later, misting the bottles in a brownish spray. Dick bit his lip.

"Holy crap!" shouted Lucy, wiping her mouth, her face bunched up in disgust. "What the hell is that stuff?"

Dick ran a hand through his hair timidly.

"The Scotch?" he started. "Oh, probably a tea, coffee, and water blend." He walked over in front of the cabinet, taking the glass from Lucy and placing it inside the display, "Scotch" still in the bottom of it. He closed the glass doors, and showed Lucy back to her seat.

"It's all for show, the bottles in there." Dick said, handing Lucy another tissue for her mouth. "I don't drink," he said, taking his seat behind the desk again. He had a mini-fridge built into one of the bottom drawers of his desk. Dick slid it open and pulled out a bottle of Coke, and handed it to Lucy. She took it and unscrewed the top quickly. She drank a large mouthful and swallowed.

"Thanks," she said wiping her mouth again. She turned her attention to the spilt contents of her purse. She looked up to Dick as she began to place items back in her bag. Dick took a nip of water from the bottle he had taken out of the fridge-drawer for himself. He made eye contact with Lucy again, her blue eyes the brightest they had been yet.

"You're an odd one, aren't you, Dick Grayson, the Private... Dick," she coyly smiled. _Ah, gawd_, thought Dick, _not the 'Dick Grayson, Private Dick' jabs again_. He had heard them a million times before. _I really have to get my business cards to read 'Richard John Grayson, Private Investigator.' She is smiling, though_, thought Dick, admiring her rosy lips, _so there is that._ Dick returned her smile.

"Odd?" Dick grinned. "Lulu, if you only knew." Lucy smiled wider. Dick placed his bottle on the desk and stood.

"Now about your case," he began.

"It's not my case," Lucy interjected. "I was just told to come here by the Masked Marvel."

"Nightwing," Dick stated. _No harm in telling her th_at, he thought. _I did say Nightwing trusted Dick Grayson_.

"What?"

"Nightwing," Dick said again, turning toward his picture wall, admiring his P.I. license for no particular reason. "That's what he calls himself."

"Nightwing then," said Lucy, shifting in her chair slightly. "This isn't my case, and I certainly am not paying you for anything. I was just told by this Nightwing to come here and tell you how the gangs are run, though I'm not sure why." She looked down at her legs. "God, if they knew I was talking to anyone who used to be a cop --"

"They?" questioned Dick, turning back towards Lucy. "Who's 'they?'" Lucy looked up to Dick again.

"The gang lords, hell, any of the gang members," she stated. "The more powerful lords might have some of the Bludhaven PD in the palm of their hand, but it doesn't mean they like snitches."

Dick walked over to Lucy with his hands in his pockets, and leaned a hip against the desk.

"Nightwing and I have a history," he began. "We owe each-other favors. Since I was on the Bludhaven police force, I've wanted to take down all the organized crime in this city. Yeah sure, a rookie cop fantasy, but one that I've kept even 'till now. Through my interaction with Nightwing, I've learned more and more about the power structure of crime in the city, and with his help, I've been able to knock some of that structure to the ground. Nightwing can't be everywhere at once, so I play eyes and ears for him at times. He sent you to me because he thinks you know something that can help us, and I think I know where he was going with that."

Dick crouched down by Lucy, and met her eyes. The scent of roses was strong now, and Dick fought to ignore it.

"Lulu, what do you do for a living?" he asked softly. It was an answer he already knew, but part of the game nevertheless. Lucy remained silent, looking blankly into Dick's eyes. He went on.

"You're a prostitute, aren't you?"

Lucy frowned slightly and nodded.

"Yes," she said in a near-inaudible whisper.

"Who is your man Lulu? Who's your pimp?"

Lucy was quiet again. She looked as if she might cry. Dick continued.

"Is it C-Dogg?"

A single tear ran down Lucy's cheek. Lucy nodded slightly again. Dick put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"He's an informant of Nightwing's, and Nightwing has lost contact with him. Lulu, where is C-Dogg?"

At that, Lucy's face scrunched up, more tears escaping her eyes. She stood with a start, leaving Dick crouched.

"I... I can't do this," she sobbed. She picked up her purse and walked towards the door. Dick got up and started after her. Lucy opened the door and descended the stairs to the sidewalk quickly, Dick close behind. Lucy reached the corner and tried to flag down a cab. Dick grabbed her by a shoulder and turned her around.

"You can trust me," he stated. Lucy shook her head.

"No, you don't understand, " she cried. "They'll kill me. I can't do this!" Lucy broke away and waved at a cab again, calling out. The yellow cab slowed and pulled to the curb. Lucy opened the back door and got in. Dick grabbed the top of the door to prevent her from shutting it.

"Please Lulu, I can get you protection, I can --"

"No you CAN'T!" she shouted through her tears. She wiped her face with her hand, brushing some of the wet drops away. The cab driver turned and looked at Dick.

"I don't know what's goin' on here buddy," he stated "but the lady is tellin' you to scram, so why don't you --"

"You're right, you don't know what's going on," Dick stated glaring at him. Dick turned back to Lucy. "Please Lulu..."

"I'm sorry Mr. Grayson," said Lucy sadly. "I'm sorry I wasted your time." She pulled the door closed. Dick frowned, but made no attempt to stop her. Lucy turned to the driver and nodded, and the cab pulled away from the curb. Dick watched it take a right at the next intersection and disappear.

"Dammit," stated Dick, staring toward the corner where the cab turned. Dick ran a hand through his hair in frustration. _I'll have to locate her on my own_, he thought. Someone like Lucy in the paranoid state that she was in wouldn't necessarily have a home address on record anywhere. He'd have to search through the net, and pound the pavement.

Dick was about to turn to go back into the office, when he heard an engine start and rev into motion. He looked towards the sound and saw a black Chevy Suburban start down the street quickly. The vehicle's windows were tinted near black, and the car had temporary tags. It screeched around the corner where Lucy's cab had disappeared moments earlier. Dick could hear as the vehicle sped down that street.

_Oh, damn_, Dick thought. _I have to get to her now_.

He ran back towards the office.


	4. Nightbird In the Daylight

This story is inspired by the "Birds of Prey Virtual Season." All characters are Copyright (c) 2004 DC Comics.

**Chapter Four: Nightbird in the Daylight**

Dick ran quickly through the entrance of the office, slamming the door behind him, but neglecting to lock it, or even flip the sign to "closed." He continued straight up the stairs next to his desk, and rounded the corner towards his apartment entrance, loosening his tie, and removing his suspenders on the way. He stopped next to the broom closet outside his apartment door, and opened it. The hinges creaked with age and years, as he swung the door open. Dick closed the worn door behind him, and reached in the dark for a thin chain hanging from the ceiling. He pulled the chain and the single bare bulb it was connected to lit up.

The closet was small, just large enough for a few brooms, mops, a mop bucket, various cleaning agents, rags, and a vacuum cleaner. Dick stepped over one fallen mop towards the back wall of the closet. Mounted the back wall of the closet was the fuse box for the apartment and agency. Next to it, hung haphazardly, was an old analog clock. The hands on its face were motionless, the clock seemingly wound-down, or batteries dead. It was day-glo green, a holdover from the seventies, gaudy to eye, almost loud enough to hear. Anyone who happened upon it wouldn't give it a second look in this decrepit, dark, and cobweb crowded closet. And that was the point.

Dick reached towards the open face of the clock. The clear plastic that had once protected the hands was long gone. Dick repositioned the hands to 10:47. The back wall of the closet sunk further back, and then slid right, revealing the interior of a stark white elevator car behind. Dick got in, and pressed the "1" button on the controls. The closet wall in front of him slid back into place, leaving no trace of the lift that it concealed.

Dick continued to loosen his clothing, as the elevator descended, and thought on 10:47 for a moment. Ten forty-seven P.M that night so long ago; the moment when Bruce Wayne's parents were murdered in front of him. The moment the Batman was born in the soul of a young boy. When Dick was still Robin, and still the partner of Batman, 10:47 had been the key to the Batcave. An old grandfather clock in Bruce's study had concealed the entrance to the cave. _Move the hands of the clock to 10:47, and that world of perpetual night would open unto you_, thought Dick with a wry smile. Dick had modeled the hidden entrance to the Aerie after the one that led to the Batcave, though his green clock was far less ostentatious than the grandfather clock had been, and the broom closet far less impressive than Bruce's study. But each served their purpose well. And 10:47 served it's own purpose; a reminder of the reason why for Bruce, and to a certain degree, the same reminder for Dick.

The elevator came to a stop, and Dick exited quickly. In front of him was the costume "vault," or the "Dress-up Room" as Dick jokingly called it. The room was directly behind the agency, and wrapped around the left side of it as well, though from the outside, a passerby would never be able to tell. The room was like the elevator car behind him; stark white, seemingly sterilized. The bright white was a conscience decision on Dick's part, marking a separation from the world Batman had lived in. Bludhaven could be just as dark as Gotham had been, but Dick felt he didn't need to come "home" to the same darkness.

Six costumes lined two walls in the room, three on each side of Dick, all suspended by hangers on two chromed metal railings that were mounted about six feet off the ground between the far and near walls. A two-foot wide, waist-high, white cabinet, with a single door about two feet in width, sat in front of each costume. Each cabinet contained repair materials for the specific costume they fronted. On top of each cabinet was a single fiberglass bust, stark white as everything else, featureless, save for a nose. The masks for each corresponding costume were set on the busts.

There was little difference between each of the costumes, physically at least. Two of the six costumes had dark navy blue masks as opposed to the other four, which had jet-black facing. The two odd costumes were what Dick called "travel" costumes; they were slightly less armored than the others, to allow easier concealment. The other four were the heavier shielded and equipped suits; each suit was made up of triple-weave Kevlar body armor with the highest ballistics-rating that was available. The Kevlar was interwoven with flame-retardant Nomex textile. The Nomex, along with electronic cooling systems in the suit kept Nightwing comfortable in even the most extreme conditions. They had saved his life in more than one raging inferno. The masks of the suits contained an internal comm-link that enabled voice-command control of Nightwing's various equipment. Nightwing had a choice of either utility belt or wrist gauntlet when he went out on sweeps. The belt was a lighter carry, but with less cargo room, while the gauntlets offered easier access to equipment, but hampered his hand to hand fighting to a certain degree due to their weight. Nightwing usually left the gauntlets to "away" missions. An assortment of Batarangs, monofilament cord jumplines, and gas bombs were among the things that the utility belt could hold.

Dick left his clothing on the floor in a cluttered pile next to the nearest "home" costume, and quickly began to suit up. He put on the body suit, then slipped on his boots, steel-toed leather boots originally designed by Batman, augmented with Nomex-reinforced thermally-stable rubberized soles. Dick stood took the mask from the nearest bust, and then placed it on his face. The mask was held in place by a modified form of spirit-gum, tough enough that the adhesive wouldn't give during a fight or even due to profuse sweat, but not so tacky that it couldn't be removed by the wearer.

Nightwing walked to the end of the costume room and opened the single door there, directly opposite the elevator entrance. The door opened to the weapon room, blank white as the rest of the Aerie, but smaller than the costume area. The box-like room was lined with steel pegboard, like that found in hardware stores. From the hooks and pegs on the walls hung various weapons; swords, knives, larger Batarangs, staffs, and Escrima sticks. While some of these weapons were lethal, and he was trained in how to use each as such, Nightwing was expert in how to subdue and not kill with the same weapons. Dick reached for a near-by pair of Escrimas, made of a shatterproof polymer. The Escrimas were his preferred weapon. Nightwing had become a master of the fighting sticks long ago.

Nightwing twirled the Escrimas in his hands, getting the feel of the weapons, and stowed them the holsters on his back that he had designed into the costume. Nightwing jerked his head left to right, popping joints in his neck and spine. He ran his two gloved hands through his hair, smoothing it back, ruining the part that Dick had carefully put there that morning. Nightwing took his hands from his hair, straightened his arms in front of him, and clenched his fists, cracking the knuckles in the process. Nightwing ran through the weapon room door, straight through the costume room, and back into the waiting elevator car. Nightwing now pressed the "B1" button on the keypad. The elevator descended further.

The car's doors opened again, and Nightwing ran into the main vehicle bay. The main vehicle bay was directly under 1310 Parkthorne, and was about the width and length of the entire building. Nightwing kept a small plane at a private hanger in Bludhaven, and a jet-powered boat at a hidden private dock, but on-site was where he kept the three major land vehicles; Nightbirds One and Two, and an old Bat-cycle.

The Bat-cycle used to be Batman's personal Bat-bike, a jet-black modified street-bike with a 786 cc liquid-cooled V-4 engine, and a bat-motif. Nightbird One had been Nightwing's main vehicle for many years. The vehicle had many of the same modifications and hi-tech extras as Batman's sixth Batmobile. In addition to a WayneTech-modified 6,064 cc engine, the vehicle also had chassis locking clamps for interchangeable, carbon-fiber over aluminum endoskeleton body shell "disguises." Perfect camouflage. The Nightbird could be "dressed" as any number of vehicles; taxi, police cruiser, or more often than not, a primer-paint, beat-up looking, street racer. It was this car that Nightwing usually took out on sweeps. It could be parked in an alley and be left alone for it's looks, and if a thief did come nosing, it had more than enough anti-theft devices to keep itself secure. However, Nightwing determined he might need more than the standard Nightbird for his current problem. Nightbird Two would be deployed. If Nightbird One was a Stealth Bomber, then Nightbird Two was an A-10 Warthog Tank Killer.

Nightbird Two was only a year old. The car was built on the frame and chassis of a 2002 Dodge Viper. "Chick's love the car," Nightwing thought to himself at the time, mostly as jest. The black Viper looked stock from the outside, save for a dark blue Phoenix painted on the hood. While Nightbird One was based on the sixth Batmobile, Nightbird Two was modeled after the last and most powerful Batmobile, codenamed BM7. The 650 hp motor had been replaced with a WayneTech-designed 1,500 hp jet turbine engine. Nightbird Two was much heavier armored than Nightbird One, therefore it lent itself to higher-pressure missions. Auto-engaged twin-auxiliary fuel tanks gave the Nightbird Two considerable range and seven-day emergency rations and water stored in the trunk allowed for extended journeys outside of the city if necessary.

"Unlock," Nightwing stated, already speaking in his raspy baritone. The Nightbird's door lock clicked in response. Nightwing slipped into the car, and closed the door behind him. He had replaced the key ignition with a push-button one long ago, to mirror that of the Batmobile's. The engine roared to life, and Nightwing revved the engine, pumping on the gas.

"Tunnel One, door open," said Nightwing. Tunnel One out of the vehicle bay led to a seemingly rundown warehouse a few streets over from Parkthorne. Dick had purchased it a few years back and left the building mostly empty, save for the hidden exit of Tunnel One. The tunnel door slid open, and Nightwing shifted the Nightbird into gear.

"Giddyup horsie," said Nightwing to himself. The engine screamed as fire erupted from the afterburner in the rear of the car. The Nightbird lunged hungrily forward into the tunnel. The tunnel door slid closed behind it.

The Nightbird burst through the automatic-doors of the warehouse, and then fishtailed severely onto Dixon Drive, as Nightwing swung the car right. It was only seven minutes after Dick had seen the Suburban take off after Lucy's cab. The sun brightly filled the sky, and puddles from the previous night's rain had begun to retreat in evaporation. Nightwing didn't like going out in the daylight, much like Batman hadn't, but it was imperative that he did right now.

While coming up to the first intersection on Dixon, Nightwing tapped a few commands into the Nightbird's onboard computer. The light at the intersection ahead turned green. Nightwing smiled. He had hacked into the Bludhaven's Department of Transportation's traffic signal a few years back, and left relays and code in the systems that allowed Nightwing to take control of the traffic patterns in the Blud if the occasion arose. It was trick he learned from Bruce and Barbara long ago. He swung the car right on the next intersection, and two cross-streets later, turned left onto Sprang Street, where he had seen the Suburban follow the taxi.

The Nightbird roared ahead weaving in and out of the traffic around. Horns blared from the cars about, their noise compensation for curses that Nightwing couldn't hear through the din. A few cars had been caught unawares in intersections, as their green lights abruptly became red. Nightwing expertly steered around those, loosing very little speed in the process. Nightwing thought he saw a few middle fingers raised in salute to his driving skills. He grinned to himself.

Nightwing called up a map of the immediate area, and gazed quickly at the surrounding streets. "If the cab took off down Sprang," Nightwing thought, "then it could have turned at any of the previous intersections. However," Nightwing thought, scrolling the map ahead, and pointing at an area on it, "the Red Light district is here. It'd be a safe bet Lucy lives somewhere there."

Nightwing drove on, maneuvering quickly around slow and confused drivers. At the next intersection, Nightwing noticed a red Civic wrecked up against a building. He slowed slightly, and noticed a smear of black paint on the side of the car. He turned right at the accident, and sped up down the street.

There were a few more cars off the road up there, and a few apparently rear-ended and immobile in the middle of the road. The Nightbird swerved quickly around the vehicles. _I'm on the right track_, he thought. None of accidents looked that serious, and after quickly displaying incoming calls to 911, he saw that the accidents were reported and EMTs and police were are their way. _Good_, Nightwing thought as he roared ahead.

Traffic began to slow in front of him, and it became increasingly difficult to drive around the cars. Often, the Nightbird swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid the gridlock. Nightwing saw the source up ahead; the Suburban was in sight, and just knocked a blue mini-van aside. The yellow taxi was just ahead of it, obviously fleeing the black vehicle. Nightwing increased speed, and swung fully into the opposite lane. The traffic up ahead had slowed, due to the Suburban's driving, and it became easier for the Nightbird to slip through the traffic.

Nightwing trained one of the Nightbird's forward cameras on the Suburban and taxi and zoomed in. He looked just in time to see the Suburban catch up to the cab. The large, black vehicle rammed solidly into the left-rear bumper of the taxi. It pressed hard into the cab, then accelerated, spinning the car violently right. Smoke rose from the burning rubber of the taxi, the driver trying desperately to stop the car. The taxi's left side crashed into a nearby brick-walled building, and slid backwards the length of the building for about fifty feet, the steel sparking and smoking rising as it scraped violently across the brick. The yellow car finally came to rest, as the Suburban slowed to parallel it. Nightwing floored the accelerator.

Nightwing flipped a couple of switches on the Nightbird's dash. A Dodge Viper's hood opens different from most cars, "clam shell" style; the hinges are towards the front of the car, as opposed to near the driver. Nightwing kept this feature in the Nightbird, but reinforced the hood, and added a few motors and pulleys. The hood opened slightly and locked, giving the front end of the Nightbird a wedge shape. The Nightbird swung back into the right traffic lane, and lined up with the Suburban. The doors on the Suburban all opened at once, and four men in black began to get out calmly, as if they had all the time in the world. They didn't. Nightwing braced as the Nightbird roared into the back of the Suburban.

Sparks shot from the undercarriage of the Suburban as the Nightbird forced itself under the larger vehicle, picking it right off the ground. The men that were beginning to exit the vehicle fell out of the car while it was in mid-air, and landed heavily splayed out on the ground, dropping automatic weapons as they did. The Nightbird emerged from the other side, and Nightwing lowered the hood once again. The Suburban hit the ground hard, part of the chassis buckling, the frame bending, glass in the open doors shattering from the impact. One of the rear wheels on the vehicle fell off, damaged by the initial impact of the Nightbird. Nightwing swung the Nightbird to the right, and pulled up on the emergency break, spinning the car a perfect one hundred eighty degrees. He quickly opened the door and ran towards the taxi.

The taxi driver got out and ran across the street, blood rushing from his nose. Lucy had yet to emerge. One of the men that was in the Suburban got to his feet, and swiftly pulled a Glock 9 mm from his coat, firing a few rounds at Nightwing. The shots were poorly aimed, and Nightwing dodged them will little effort, jumping towards the brick-building's nearby wall, flipping in mid-air, briefly planting his feet and pushing off into a spin kick. The heel of Nightwing's left foot came into perfect contact with his attacker's face. The man fell to the ground, as his weapon spun away from him. Nightwing landed in a crouch, and from his vantage, saw four other former occupants of the Suburban come around from the opposite side of the vehicle. Nightwing leapt up to the top of the Suburban, tucking and spinning, head over heels in mid-air, catching two attackers in his peripheral vision. He threw the two Escrimas at them as he landed on the roof of the vehicle. The Escrimas found their targets, hitting one man in middle of the forehead, the other right behind his left ear. Both men fell limply to the ground.

The other two men stopped their advance on the taxi and fired on Nightwing with their MAC-10s. Nightwing flipped off the roof of the Suburban while throwing two Batarangs at the attackers. Both blades hit home, impaling the back of one man's hand, making him drop his gun, and slicing the other's shoulder, making him loose grip on his weapon. Nightwing landed then lunged at the man on his left, as the attacker tried to pull the Batarang from his hand. The attacker gave a brief 'yelp' as Nightwing slammed an open palm into the bridge of his nose. The attack was commonly believed to be lethal, but Nightwing knew it rarely was. However if done right, it could easily knock out an enemy. And it did. The man pitched backwards lifelessly, a trail of blood flowing from his nose following him down.

Nightwing turned towards the final attacker. He was larger than the others, his skin pale white, his head shaven clean. Like the others, he wore a black overcoat covering what looked to be a black Special-Ops uniform; a utility belt and pouches, harness rigging and the like. "Baldy" swung at Nightwing with his right. Nightwing dodged, but the blow glanced his back. _He's a pro_, Nightwing thought. He could tell from the punch. T-Cool was nothing compared to this man. Baldy did a spinning back-kick, which barely missed Nightwing's head. Nightwing threw a palm at Baldy's head. Baldy dodged easily, but Nightwing spun in the opposite direction, crouching as he went, and swept Baldy's legs from under him. Baldy fell, briefly, but got back to his feet as fast as he had fallen. He swung again with a solid right. This one caught Nightwing in the chest. While his armor cushioned any real damage, the air briefly escaped Nightwing's lungs. He staggered back slightly dazed. Baldy grabbed him by the hair and belt, and threw him into the side of the Suburban. Any glass that hadn't already broke shattered around Nightwing. He fell to the ground with a thud. Nightwing shook the stars from his vision, as Baldy grabbed Nightwing by the hair again, jerking him to his feet.

"Your momma's been feeding you your Wheaties, eh big-boy?" asked Nightwing through gritted teeth. Baldy smiled. Nightwing returned the smile, then swiftly planted his left fist into Baldy's teeth. A few teeth broke and flew out like Tic-Tacs from a damaged package. Baldy staggered slightly, without releasing his grip on Nightwing's hair. Nightwing slammed his left elbow into Baldy's bicep, and his grasp on his hair finally let up. Nightwing wasted no time; he slapped Baldy's left arm aside, and swung his left elbow into Baldy's chin. The big man staggered back farther, and Nightwing delivered a standing side-kick into Baldy's gut. He pitched forward, gasping for air, and Nightwing put him down with a spin-kick to the side of the face. Baldy fell forward, and lay prone. Nightwing ran a hand back through his hair.

"If you wanted hair so bad, you could have just asked," said Nightwing sarcastically.

Nightwing ran around to the taxi. Lucy was just then venturing out. She looked shaken, but uninjured.

"Lucy," called Nightwing, as he reached her. She backed away from him.

"No... no," she said, her voice trembling. "Stay away from me. They know I talked to your friend. They tried to kill me!" She backed away up the street.

"Lucy, who?" asked Nightwing. "Who do these men work for? Please, you have to talk to me, to Grayson!"

"No!" shouted Lucy, as she backed further away. "I don't want to die!"

"Lucy," Nightwing pleaded, "I won't let anything happen, I promise yuh --"

Two strong arms wrapped themselves around Nightwing, pinning his arms to his side.

"Baldy," Nightwing said, as he felt the grip tighten.

The large man giggled. Nightwing frowned at the noise.

"Mr. Clean," stated Nightwing, grimacing, "I really don't have time for this."

Nightwing pushed off with his feet, propelling he and the large man into the front of the Suburban. Baldy's grip didn't relent, so Nightwing brought his right foot heavily onto that of the other man's. Nightwing felt as the bones cracked and broke in his attacker's foot. Baldy let out a 'wheeze.' Nightwing swung his head violently backwards into Baldy's nose. He felt that break as well, and the warm feeling of Baldy's blood running down the back of his head. Baldy finally released his grip on Nightwing. Nightwing spun and landed a solid left to Baldy's left ear, following with a right to the larger man's chin. Nightwing finished with a solid kick to Baldy's groin. A look of surprise erupted on Baldy's face, as he fell to his knees, his hands reaching for his crotch.

"Sorry to go nuts on you," Nightwing grinned. He slammed an open palm into Baldy's nose. The bald man's head snapped back and smacked into the Suburban, denting the grillwork. Baldy fell forward again.

Nightwing turned back to Lucy, but she was long gone. Nightwing heard sirens nearby. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Dammit," he swore to no one in particular.


End file.
